Rekindling
by ILM
Summary: Two weeks ago, they wouldn't have needed this conversation. And he wouldn't have needed his hope restoring.
1. Chapter 1

I now know what overwhelmed feels like - I never expected so many (or so positive) reviews for 'Storms'. Thank you so much, everybody - and to those anonymous ones I couldn't reply to, they really did mean a lot. It wasn't quite enough to get me up and finishing 'Past Futures' (although I'm nearly there on the next chapter) but it was more than enough to provoke me into writing again!

Not quite like the stuff I've written before... (And as usual, they aren't mine, because I'd upset them.)

* * *

Two weeks ago, she told him they couldn't do this anymore. He didn't argue, and she seemed almost disappointed by his compliance.

He's waiting for her to explode; he knows her too well to think she will just accept his easily-granted agreement. He knows she is watching him now, although she's trying to hide it – maybe today will be the day her frustrations boil over.

He isn't sure why she ended it, although guesses have run through his mind for a fortnight. He doesn't want to think what everybody else thinks: that she panicked in the face of intimacy and simply couldn't cope with being the focus of someone's life. People should know her better by now, he reasons. She isn't so lacking in self-esteem that she believes she isn't worthy of his desire. She far transcends the cliché some people try to mould her into.

Her movements have been sharp today, as she has gone about the lab, further indoctrinating him into the world of science. He wondered at first if she was hurt, until he recognised how tightly wound she was. Two weeks ago, he would have soothed that physical frustration with his hands.

"I filed a report about the disturbance at the scene," she says quietly, still peering at the fragment in her hands.

He bites his lip, reminding himself of her inflexibility when it comes to her work. "All that will happen is Roper will get reamed for not following procedure. He's a young guy, he'll learn, he doesn't need that on his record."

She meets his gaze, not the slightest bit repentant. "And this will make him learn," she counters firmly. "It's not the first time he's just 'moved things around a bit', and you know it."

His eyes shift to the ceiling and he knows that's his tell – the sign he agrees with her but doesn't want to admit it. "No, but I see no benefit in turning him against us."

She shrugs her shoulders. "I don't care if he likes me or not. And you're his superior, he has to treat you with respect."

He snorts. "Yeah, I can see that happening."

She looks up again. "Well, you always seem very respected."

"You have to earn it, Bones. _I_ have to earn it."

She doesn't look away. "You earned mine," she reminds him, softly.

He wonders why the mood just shifted, and not to the reconciliatory air he would expect her tone to induce. "It took a while."

He knows suddenly why she invoked the gentleness in her voice: she is padding him against a fall.

She carefully repacks the bone fragment and starts to clear away her tools. "I think… There are some things we need to discuss."

He says nothing at the abrupt diversion in the conversation, even though there is a list of things _he_ needs to discuss.

"Booth?"

"I don't think now is the time," he mutters, not sure why he's avoiding a conversation he's been expecting for days.

She bites her lip, clearly nervous. "We have to," she insists.

"Really? Now?" he asks, incredulously. "You pick now, when we've been working all day and we're exhausted and hungry? Hell of a way to pick your moment, Bones."

"I'm going out tonight," she blurts out, suddenly unable to even look in his direction. He watches her deliberately pull her hair band out so she can shake the auburn-brown waves over her eyes.

Two weeks ago, he would have pushed the barrier aside and told her not to hide from him.

"A date?" he checks calmly, feeling numbness spread through his body.

She nods, still refusing to look at him.

"Okay."

Her head lifts slightly. "You're okay with it?"

He wants to laugh, wondering if he's imagining the disappointment in her voice. "Suppose so." He shrugs his shoulders. "What can I do about it if I'm not, anyway?"

She hesitates. "Nothing," she murmurs, slipping her lab coat off her shoulders as she walks towards the office.

He follows, torn between wanting to shake her and wanting to run away and bury himself in denial. When had he decided that playing it cool would work for him?

"Where's he taking you?"

"I don't know," she tells him, her back to him as she shuts down her computer.

"You don't know? That's not like you."

"I thought… Well, I just decided that maybe I'd try letting somebody else take control for once."

This time, he can't restrain the bitter laughter that falls from his lips.

"You're laughing at me?" The surprise is evident in her tone and it's only now that she turns to face him.

"Yes. Yes, I'm laughing at you."

"I hardly think that's fair."

"Don't you?" he says, keeping his voice neutral even as his instinct wars with his rationality.

"I'm moving on, Booth. Isn't that what you call it?"

He stares at her, knowing his silence will make her uncomfortable.

"No, I don't," he murmurs, his tone undercut with a streak of viciousness that he normally buries. "I call it pretending. I call it running away. I call it ending something before it got to be something you had to work at."

Two weeks ago, this is an argument that would have ended with breathless, frantic haste against the wall of her office, surrounded by near contempt for the prospect of interruption.

"Well, I call it admitting something isn't working," she hisses back, and he knows he's tapped into the temper she hides so well behind her friend logic.

"Because your idea of something working is something that's easy! And nothing's easy!" he rejoins fiercely, conscious of his advance towards her forcing her towards the wall.

"You can't call this running away," she avers heatedly, taking her own step towards him and ignoring his accusation

And he knows that's what he loves, her unwillingness to back down, even as he swears to himself that he wishes just for once she'd see his side.

"Well, I do. I call it running as fast as you can away from something that could be everything you won't admit you want. And you know what else I call it? I call it everyone being right about you, Temperance, whenever they've told me you just can't handle our relationship," he spits out angrily, taking two rapid strides towards her that force her back against the wall He doesn't care, not now, that he's physically crowding her, and through the blur of his rage he can still recognise her unerring ability to inflame him. "And you know what? _I've_ been wrong. I kept defending you, telling everyone they didn't know you, that you didn't have a problem committing. Fucking hell, I told _myself_ you weren't scared. And I was so fucking wrong it's unbelievable. Because you are scared, aren't you? Scared to death I'm just like every other man and I thought you'd know better by now. You should have some fucking faith in me."

His hands are either side of her head and he's leaning close, too close, as he fires his uncharacteristic obscenities into her face.

"So you can carry on pretending. You can go out tonight and flirt and laugh and make him think you want him. You can close your eyes when you kiss him so you can pretend you don't care he's not me. You can take him to bed and fuck him seven ways from Sunday until you forget why you gave up mediocre sex with semi-strangers. I don't care any more. I _can't_ care any more. I'm through with you."

His departure isn't emotional enough to be called storming out, his careful strides simply functional in removing him from her vicinity. He's sapped of all that made him arrestingly conspicuous, that thrumming energy that seemed to drain from him as he threw his savage final words at her.

And she knows he means it.

* * *

Yes, that's right, there's a Chapter 2: "Oh no," they protest, "just look at her track record with posting chapters within any reasonable time at all! We'll never see it!"

Ah, you will - have some faith, it's half-way there already. Honestly...


	2. Chapter 2

**Well, this appeared quicker than I expected - admittedly, mostly written in one flurry of unanticipated inspiration today! It's not how I planned it when I wrote the first part, but I hope it fits.**

**(Do I even need to say I don't own them? - I think the viewers would be pretty depressed if I did...)**

* * *

He doesn't drink when he gets home, although his mind aches for the oblivious sleep induced by alcohol. He has to learn to accommodate the sting he feels every time he thinks of her with somebody else, he reasons. There is no way back from this now; she has made her choice and he must live with it.

He thinks about heading for a bar, finding solace in the company of a woman who would not expect anything of him but appreciation. It's what he would have done two years ago, he knows – but now he almost wants to wallow in his misery. The thought makes him chuckle slightly, wondering how long he has been a self-pitying soul rather than the happy man he used to be. Has she made him into this?

No, he tells himself forcefully. He can't blame this on her. He knew what he was getting when they decided to try for the 'something more' he wanted with her. It just seems now that maybe it wasn't worth it; maybe they would have been better off remaining friends teetering on the edge of intimacy. At least then he didn't have an explosive torrent of words piling up inside him.

He knows what he said hurt her and maybe he would feel better if he hadn't said those things. But now at least there isn't that pressure building inside him; it dissipated with the blunt accusations he had flung at her.

He yanks at his tie, pulling it over his head and undoing his top button. Normally, he would divest his suit in favour of comfier clothes, but tonight he just doesn't have the energy. He can see her in his mind, in the blue dress she wore for their first date because she knows it matches her eyes and offsets her hair. Except this time, she's with somebody else, letting him have the smile that was completely anxious-female-on-date, despite her determination to whittle down romance into its constituent parts.

It had been strange for both of them at first; but that strangeness had soon given way to the natural ease they shared. He hates the thought of her having that with someone else.

He briefly contemplates cooking, realising he hasn't eaten properly since breakfast, but nothing appeals to him. The last time he cooked in his own kitchen, she was with him, teasing him about his constant peering into the oven. Since then, he has been spending most of his time at work, distracting himself from the empty space in his life. He had never expected their relationship to become his life in only four months.

Except, of course, he should have realised that it would be like that the first time he kissed her. Well, the first time he kissed her without an audience, he corrects himself, although he is forced to admit that Caroline's presence only slightly curbed their enthusiasm. It had been gentler, their first private kiss, but no less passionate; it was his way of trying to show her that she didn't need to be scared of this new phase of their lives, that he was still the same man as he was the day before. They weren't new people simply because there was the possibility of waking up next to each other.

He had honestly thought she was growing into it. She seemed to question him less as time went by and he thought she was happy. He thought _he_ made her happy.

It's nearly nine o'clock, he notices, and he can't stop himself wondering where she is now. Are they still lingering in the restaurant, both waiting for the other to decide on the next step? Or is she waiting for a goodnight kiss at her door, her face tilted up, her lips moist and slightly parted?

He bangs his fist against the sofa, disappointed at the hollow thud that is the only noise produced. A wall is a much better opponent.

The blank screen of his phone mocks him, reminding him how alone he feels right now.

_You have no new messages_, he knows his voicemail would taunt him, wondering how he can possibly attribute to malice to an automated voice.

He forces himself off his sofa, reasoning that he might as well be comfortable if he is going to torture himself mentally for another couple of hours. Mechanically, he strips off his clothes, pulling on sweatpants and a t-shirt that has seen better days. His shoulder briefly protests as he tugs the shirt over his head and he tries to recall what he's done that might have strained it. Probably the tension as he held himself away from the wall earlier, trapping her between his arms. He feels fleetingly guilty, but he knows she could easily have escaped him if she'd tried.

He pads barefoot into the kitchen, opening cupboards and contemplating their contents. After a few minutes he gives up and viciously bangs two slices of bread into the toaster. He just needs enough to convince his stomach to let him sleep.

The buzzer goes as he is crunching the second slice and pacing his kitchen and he knows it's her. Nobody else would just drop by at this time. He considers ignoring it even whilst his feet carry him towards the door.

He wants it to be raining so that the gloom matches his mood, but it's still stubbornly light outside. The fading sunshine glints off her hair and he remembers threading his fingers through the strands as he rolled her over in the early morning.

"What are you doing here?"

She inclines her head towards the interior. "Will you let me in?"

"That depends on what you have to say," he says flatly.

"Booth, please." Her voice is measured, but he can hear the strain behind the calm. "I just want five minutes."

He steps aside abruptly to let her in, torn between not wanting to listen and preferring that she was with him rather than somebody else.

She hangs her jacket and bag on the hook behind the door and he realises that he was right: she's wearing the blue dress that he had been so sure she bought especially for him.

"Talk fast," he tells her, barely recognising the coldness in his tone.

"I don't know why you're being like this," she starts, only to stop as his face moves into a disbelieving stare.

"Would you like me to write you a memo?" he asks callously.

"No, but I think I deserve an explanation for the things you said!" she fires back, suddenly riled. "It wasn't necessary and you know it!"

"Wasn't it?" he retorts hotly. "I wouldn't be so sure about that, Bones. I think you needed to hear everything I said, and I think I'm the only person you'd listen to when they said it!"

"And what makes you so special?" she sneers, her usually pretty face contorting in a cross between disgust and distress.

"Oh, I don't know, let's think about it, shall we? Let's talk about what makes me special." He knows the volume of his voice is rising as he advances towards her, but he no longer cares about his neighbours. "How about the last four years? Does that work for you? How about the things we've seen together, the things we've been through together? Do you take them into account? Or do I need to go on and talk about the last few months? Maybe _you_ didn't notice, but it wasn't me that was special – it was _us_."

He stops for breath, his chest heaving. He makes himself look at her, so much closer than he was at the start of his tirade, but she hasn't backed away.

"We're no different to any other couple who don't work out," she says disdainfully. "It's only you who doesn't realise that. You know what? We tried, it failed. You don't have to blame me for it."

He raises his eyebrows. "Don't I?" he hisses, hearing the menace increase as he drops the volume. "I _do_ blame you for it. I blame you for not giving me _or_ yourself enough credit. You think you gave us a chance? I don't. And you can try to tell yourself it's not your fault, but you know it is, so don't kid me. You _know_ you fell for me harder than you ever thought you would and that scared you."

"I wouldn't have so high opinion of yourself if I was you," she snaps. "You're the same as any other man sometimes!"

His laugh is a vicious bark as he takes one more step towards her. "Oh really? And let me ask, has any other man had the same effect on you? Because I doubt it, I really do. I think that scared you too – that this time it wasn't just your body, it was your heart as well. And you _know_ what we had was better than anything you'd experienced."

"Are we talking about sex here?" she counters, clearly determined not to be intimidated by his proximity. "Because that would be a first, the good little Catholic boy being prepared to talk about sex."

"You want me to talk about sex, Temperance?" He wonders if she recognises the danger behind his use of her first name. She used to know he wasn't joking around when he used it. "Do you think I can't? Maybe you'd like me to talk about how it felt to finally get you beneath me? Do you want me to tell you how hard I was when I realised how wet you were for me, that first time? Should I describe the way your nipple felt against my tongue when I teased it?"

Her face is flushed and he knows she isn't immune to his words. She has never realised that it was a _choice_ not to talk about sex; that he saved his weapons for when he needed them most.

"How detailed do you want me to be?" he breathes against her ear. "Do you want me to tell you what I was thinking as I slid inside you? Do you want me to remind you how loud you were when you came?"

"Booth," she starts faintly, finally backing away from him only to find the wall against her back.

He mirrors her step, remaining just as close as before.

"Is that a bit too much for you, Temperance? Would you prefer I stuck to being the good Catholic boy?"

Her tongue darts across her lips, her breath coming faster. He is transfixed by the rapid rise and fall of her chest.

"You know I could floor you," she incites him, pressing her body back against the cool brickwork.

"And you know I'd let you," he murmurs in her ear, his voice husky. "And that's why you're not at all scared of me being this close to you."

"You're a lot bigger than me," she reminds him. "That could be seen as scary."

"You're not scared of me," he repeats. "You might be mad at me. You might be upset by me. But mostly you're just turned on right now, aren't you?"

She says nothing, biting her lip and turning her head away. His hand darts out, catching her chin and moving her head back to face him.

"Aren't you going to deny it?"

She stares at him defiantly. "Do you want me to deny it?" she taunts him.

His eyes slide down her body to her chest as his hands circle her waist. "You can if you want," he whispers, "but it doesn't mean I'll believe you."

She can't stop the sound that escapes her as he brushes his thumbs over her nipples, her eyes sliding shut.

"Open your eyes," he mutters fiercely, his stubble brushing her cheek as his lips move against her face. "You're not going to be able to deny who does this to you any more. You're going to admit that only I make you feel like this."

He watches her prise her eyelids open, finally meeting his gaze. He thinks he can see tears gathering at the corners of the blue orbs, but now is not a time for comfort and gentleness – now is a time for possession and passion.

His kiss is not the slow persuasion she's used to; his lips press hers hard, his tongue persistent in opening her mouth. He hears the breath catch in her throat before he pushes her back against the wall, his body tight against hers. He presses his hips to hers, knowing she can feel that his arousal matches her own, and shivers when she moans against his lips.

"You've not stopped this," he breathes, his right hand tugging at the concealed zip under her arm. He knows where it is; she had laughed at his frustrated growl when he couldn't find it, that night after their first date when he had thrown away the promise he had made to himself that he would take it slowly. "I want you to remember that tomorrow, when you try to blame me for the way you feel. I want you to remember it's not my fault you're confused."

"Shut up," she mumbles, her fingers gripping his hair, forcing his mouth back to hers. "Just for once, shut up and deliver on your promises."

He nips at her swollen bottom lip, drawing a slight whimper from her. "You know I always deliver."

"I know you talk too much," she counters, her tongue sliding over his pulse.

She is always heavier than he expects, but that never stops him picking her up. She isn't a delicate flower and he never wanted her to be. He wants the woman who is his match in every way.

She kicks her shoes off as her legs wrap around him, her dress slipping from her shoulders as he carries her to his bedroom, their mouths brutally intense. She moans as he falls on the bed with her, his erection forceful against the thin material of her dress.

He doesn't wait for her to settle, stripping his own clothes quickly from his body before yanking the top of her dress down. The delicate lace cup of her bra follows, her gasp echoing in the quiet room as the material brushes her nipple. Her skin is hot against his lips as his mouth traces the curve of her breast, avoiding the swollen, dusky pink flesh in the centre.

"Stop teasing," she blurts out, trying to force his lips to her nipple.

"Don't tell me what to do," he growls, his mouth moving back to slant across her own. "You know I don't like that."

The frustrated sob that escapes her as he continues to ignore the way she arches her back simply makes him more determined not to give in. This is the only time when she comes close to conceding their mutual dependence, with her blood courses frantically through her body, her sensitised skin shivering at the slightest touch, her persistently-logical mind clouded by irrational emotions that she hates because she can't explain them like she can everything else.

He eases her dress down over her body, his hands slipping over the curves of her bottom as she raises her hips to help him. She doesn't wait for him before unhooking her bra, dropping it on the floor.

She pulls him against her, pushing her hips up to meet his hot, thick erection, and he can't stop the groan that rumbles through him. A brief pang of regret shoots through him: when he opened the door, he hadn't intended for her impromptu visit to end like this. He had always hoped that the next time he kissed her it would be coloured with reconciliation and a promise not to underestimate him again.

"So, what will it be, Temperance?" he murmurs in her ear, his voice deliberately low. "Do you remember what it was like to come against my mouth? Do you want me to tease you with my tongue until you beg? Because you did, you know." She whimpers, her nails digging into his biceps as she wriggles against him, desperately trying to create enough friction. "Or do you want me to fuck you hard and fast, until you can hardly breathe? Because I know that secretly you like me taking control, however much you might not want to admit it." He thrusts his aching, pulsating cock against her, revelling in the dampness of her underwear as she spreads her legs wide.

"Just do it," she pants, her hands manoeuvring her underwear over her hips, pushing futilely against his chest in an effort to free the material trapped between them.

He grabs her wrists, pinning them to the bed. "So impatient," he whispers. "You need to learn to relish the experience, it's not a race to the end."

He kisses her once more, his mouth slow and firm, his body holding hers in place beneath him. His tongue slips against hers, seeking out the familiar sensitive spots of her mouth. He isn't sure if the moan vibrating between them is hers or his own.

He drags himself out of the kiss, hauling breath into his lungs. Her breasts are pressing against him with every rapid breath, the hard bullets of her nipples scraping against his chest, and he finally dips his head to draw the engorged flesh into his mouth, his tongue swirling around it as he sucks. Her shuddering moan slithers over his body.

Free from his restraint, she forces her hands between them to discard her remaining clothing, eyes narrowing almost triumphantly once she is completely naked against him. His body is overheating; his need to make her realise everything that is them together is losing the fight against his desire for her.

"There's nothing wrong with impatience," she gasps, tugging his mouth from her nipples so he is facing her.

Hot, wet softness collides with pulsating, unyielding rigidity and this time he knows that the moan belongs to both of them. She squirms restlessly, trying to force him inside her completely, unable to overwhelm his superior strength.

"Stop fighting me," his words wash over her as his hands smooth over her body once again, "we're on my timescale now."

"_Seeley_," she implores him, her lips against his, her body burning up in his arms.

And that's the sign he was waiting for, the sign that he has got to her. The intimacy of his first name never intruded on the lives they shared with others; it was always just for them and he still thinks he can count the number of times she has used it, even in his bed.

"Don't pretend," he murmurs against her face, reaching between them to stroke her slick, swollen clitoris.

Her body tenses, her breathing erratic as his fingers continue their slow, unmerciful torture.

"Do I look like I'm pretending?" she rasps, and he recognises her words as the last remnants of her defiance.

"Don't pretend I don't know you," he whispers, pushing into her willing body, feeling her stretch tightly around him.

She cries out against his shoulder and he slips his arms around her, holding her against his chest as he starts to move slowly.

"Faster," she urges, her voice muffled against his skin, propelling her hips up to meet him.

He lifts his body slightly away from her, using one hand to force her to meet his eyes. "Don't even try to pretend it feels like this with anyone else," he mutters fiercely, increasing his pace, feeling her thighs tighten around his hips.

"_Please_," she pleads, her hands gripping his ass so tightly he knows there will be bruises.

He relents, holding himself over her on his forearms as he starts to thrust powerfully, rapidly, the air swirling with the scent of arousal. She has never held back and now is no different, as her gasping cries enfold him. He knows, in the back of his mind, that this will not help either of them: this will bind him innately in her spell; this will scare her even more. But there is no chance now to choose a wiser course, as her nails scrape over the muscles of his back and her body starts to contract violently around him.

She moans loudly, her back arching, her eyes almost begging him to end this.

"I know," he struggles to get out, maintaining his rhythm, "it's okay, I know, just let it happen."

It only takes a few more moments, a few more intense drives, before her body goes rigid and her breath freezes. The air rushes from her in an agonised cry as she starts to shudder violently, her arms clutching him to her. His control is no match for the spasms wracking through her and he comes violently inside her, his hips jerking against her as he tries to hold his weight off her.

He can't resist leaving the imprint of his mouth against the unmarred curve of her breast as he slowly sinks back down.

He doesn't try to hold her, despite the urge to press her against him and stop her talking, stop her thinking. Instead, he waits for his breathing to subside and reluctantly rolls off her, tugging the duvet from underneath her motionless frame and resting it over her, fascinated by the erratic ripples of her torso as she struggles to control her muscles. It takes minutes before she relaxes, stretching her limbs tentatively.

He sits up, his hand brushing a wave of damp hair from her flushed cheek.

"I'm going to leave for ten minutes," he murmurs, careful to keep his voice soothing.

"What?" she mumbles, her eyelids drooping.

"Ten minutes," he repeats. "If you're here when I come back, then I'll know you want this as much as I do. I'll know you think we're worth fighting your instincts for. Then if it doesn't work, we'll be sure we've put everything we can into it. And if you want to leave whilst I'm gone, then go. But if you do," his finger runs over her soft skin, stroking her full bottom lip, "then I'll let you. I won't chase you. I won't be your fool, Temperance, so make sure you're certain about what you're doing."

He kisses her gently, his lips caressing hers so lightly she is forced to lift her head for the kiss she wants. He pulls away sooner than either would like, swinging his legs off the bed, reaching for his discarded clothing as he heads for the bathroom.

He doesn't know which path she will choose when he offers them, but he can't stop the tears gathering when he hears his front door open eight minutes later.

* * *

***ducks potential projectiles* - pick your own outcome?**

**Yes, I'm sorry - I'm sure a few of you probably dislike me quite a lot right now... It wasn't how I was ever planning on ending it until the words appeared on the screen!**

**Does it work? I'd be interested to know - I don't think I've written anything really 'angsty' before.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Yes, I gave in. I got so many reviews saying they couldn't believe I'd ended this the way I did that I started thinking - and okay, it took me a fair few months, but here is Chapter 3. Unfortunately, once I started writing this I realised that there would need to be Chapter 4... If I promise not to take five months over it, will you forgive me?**

**I have to give credit to Chicklit for the great idea of the note (you'll see what I mean later). I freely admit to being completely stuck for any plausible way out without her contribution. Chicklit, I don't think I'm using it the way you intended and I'm sorry - it just seemed to write itself...**

* * *

It's been six months since they were normal.

Everyone knows and nobody speaks of it. For six months, they have avoided each other as much as two people who call themselves partners possibly can.

She misses him in a way she had never expected. She misses the person he was before _she_ changed him; and no matter how many times she tries to convince herself that a person changes themselves, she knows it was her. A consummate professional stands where she wants her friend to be. Where her friend used to be before she sabotaged the one connection she had that she knows would have lasted but for her own actions.

She watches him now as he disappears through the doors. He rarely visits now; she is still surprised by how much of their work can be done with miles of space between them. This afternoon, he had been forced to drop off evidence borrowed by the FBI techs, but five minutes of brusque conversation with Cam and Angela had been all that took place before he left without even looking at her.

She knows he sees Hodgins sometimes but pride will not let her ask after him. She wants to know why suddenly he seems to be favouring his right foot and what made him decide to keep his hair a little longer. She wonders if he goes to the diner any more and whether he ever thinks about her. She noticed in October that he had stopped wearing the cocky belt buckle and has twice bitten her tongue to stop herself asking why.

He doesn't call her _Bones_ now. He doesn't call her anything. When he is forced to introduce her, she is simply _Dr Brennan, from the Jeffersonian_. No longer _Dr Brennan, my partner_.

She tells herself she isn't crying as she blinks rapidly and turns back to her office.

She doesn't want to see Angela sitting on the couch in her office. It's obvious she isn't there to discuss work – there is no sketchbook, no file, no lab coat. This is her friend about to break her down and she doesn't want that now. If she breaks, she has no glue to fix herself any more.

"Has he gone?"

She nods, sitting behind her desk. She doesn't want the friendly touch of Angela's hand. She wants distance and detachment, a wall of self-preservation to hide behind.

"Are you going to ignore me?"

Her smile is brittle. "I'm not ignoring you, Ange, do you need to tell me about the roof structure? If you give me ten minutes I'll come out." She busies herself with her computer, barely taking in the analysis she is staring at.

"You know I'm not here for that," Angela says in a low voice. "Don't pretend to be naive. I'm not fooled."

She looks up but doesn't meet her friend's eyes. "I'm really busy, can this wait?"

"No," is the simple response, unaccompanied by anything else.

It takes five minutes of intractable silence before she concedes to herself that Angela has no intention of leaving. She has seen this stubborn side of her friend before, but rarely been the recipient of it. It has certainly never come as the companion of the angry disappointment radiating from Angela now.

Without speaking, she moves to sit on the couch, careful to keep herself as far away as possible. She wonders what Booth would think of her now and hears his voice telling her that aloof body language is generally a defensive tool.

_I can't be anything but defensive_, she allows to flit across her mind before she closes down any possibility of emotion interfering. She needs to retain her rationality to deal with Angela.

"Will you ever tell me what went wrong?"

She stares at her lap, hating this new personality trait she seems to have developed. When did she stop being able to argue her point?

"Nothing went wrong, Ange, it just ended."

"You know that's not what I'm talking about," Angela counters flatly. "Yes, it ended. And yes, I'm perfectly aware that sometimes relationships end, before you start on that line. I'm talking about what happened _later_. What happened to make him hate you?"

She can't stop herself flinching.

_Does he hate me?_

It's the thought she has never allowed herself to consider before.

"Nothing," she mutters.

Angela sighs and almost audibly counts to ten. "I have no plans for the night. And you know I'm prepared to sit here for as long as it takes."

It's because she knows precisely that that she decides to talk. It's not because she wants to tell someone, she tries to convince herself.

"There was… There was more. In July." She hesitates. "I tried dating someone else," she blurts out, still studiously staring at her knees.

Angela doesn't seem surprised. "I'm guessing it didn't work?"

She shrugs her shoulders. "Booth was… angry. He said – he said I was running from something that could work because I was scared. And he said…" Her voice chokes slightly as she forces the words out. "He said he didn't care if I fucked someone else and pretended it was him."

"_Booth_ said that?!" Now she hears Angela's shock and she is almost pleased that someone else feels the wounding bewilderment that his words had caused when he threw them at her.

She nods. "I said he was angry."

Angela takes a deep breath. "What did you do?" she asks tentatively.

She knows her friend is dreading the answer. "I went to see him. Later. And I asked him to explain."

Angela groans, her head dropping into her hands. "I'm not going to like this, am I?" she mutters, her voice muffled.

She laughs bitterly. "I doubt it. It was… strange. He wasn't like him at all, I've never seen him so…"

"Furious?" Angela supplies when she can't find the word.

She nods. "He didn't try to laugh it off. He didn't tell me it would all be fine. He wasn't _Booth_." She has thought about that night too many times since and still experiences the shivering sting of a painful memory shot through with pleasurable intensity.

_You're not going to be able to deny who does this to you any more. You're going to admit that only I make you feel like this._

Too many times she has tried to ignore the bookends of the encounter as she relives it in her bed, pretending her fingers are his.

Angela is staring at her, a strange cross between distress and anticipation sliding over her face. "You slept with him, didn't you?"

She knows her blush only confirms it.

"Oh hell." Angela shifts so that she is sitting sideways on the couch. "It was good, wasn't it?"

She is sure her face is bright red. "Amazing," she mumbles, wondering why she is so embarrassed about this when she has never been shy about sharing her sexual experiences before.

"I always knew angry Booth would be hot," Angela muses, temporarily distracted. "I bet he was all I'm-in-charge and shut-up-and-fuck-me. That kind of hot."

As soon as she lets the memory back into her mind, her body is flooded with heat. He had been masterful that night and she had revelled in every minute, as she finally met her match. Had she secretly always wanted him to be like that?

_Don't even try to pretend it feels like this with anyone else._

"That kind of hot," she repeats, idly, twisting her fingers together in her lap.

Angela reaches over and pokes her. "Stop distracting me. I'm being angry with you."

She knows that Angela's ire has died, but has no intention of fanning the flames again. "He gave me ten minutes," she murmurs, unable to stop herself wondering what would have happened if she had made the other decision. The one she knew he had wanted.

"To do what? Dare I ask?"

"To decide." The lump in her throat is threatening to bring tears. "To decide whether I wanted him or not."

Angela is silent for a long time. "You chose the other option, didn't you?"

She nods, feeling hot tears slide over her cheeks and hurrying to swipe them away. "I left."

"Just like that? Seriously?"

She knows she's gone badly wrong when she manages to shock Angela. "No, I… I left him a note."

Her friend stares at her. "You left him a _note_?! You didn't even try to talk to him? I mean, he should know better than to go around issuing ultimatums to you of all people, but still… I can't believe you left him a note… What did it say?"

She remembers every word, despite six months of trying to forget.

_I can't stay. It isn't that I don't care about you. But I can't live in a relationship, knowing that everything ends eventually. I haven't learnt to live in the moment like you do. Please just give me some time and then we can go back to normal and see what happens next. You'd call it a fresh start. I think we need one. If we start over then we can let things go how they're suppose to._

"I told him I couldn't stay. That I wanted to start over again and see what happened."

She still isn't sure what she meant.

Angela hesitates. "Start what over? From the beginning? From the day you met? Or did you mean you and him?"

She can tell Angela is trying to be gentle with her. "I don't know!" she blurts out, suddenly overwhelmed by a new sadness. "I didn't know then and I still don't know now! I knew what he wanted and I couldn't be that for him! So it was easier, I just wanted things back the way they were, when he didn't expect anything of me and I knew I could just do what I'm good at."

Angela's hand squeezes her arm, comfortingly. "Did you think that maybe _he_ knew what he wanted and you were it, without any alterations?" she suggests cautiously, clearly taken aback by tears from her usually so controlled friend. "Because I don't think he expected anything of you that he wasn't sure you could give. You were two steps ahead of him, like you always are. But you can't treat relationships like you do science – it isn't a race to a conclusion."

She finally meets Angela's eyes, amazed by the understanding she sees behind them. She has always assumed they are different, she and Angela; so many people have called them chalk and cheese that she once objected to being likened to either calcium carbonate or a dairy product. Now she sees that maybe she should have given her best friend more credit for knowing her thought processes, not just her outward facade.

_Don't pretend I don't know you._

Maybe it wasn't just Booth she needed to apply that too.

"It doesn't matter now," she murmurs. "He doesn't even talk to me now."

Angela sighs. "Because he thinks you dismissed four years of history and everything you had built together, you dodo. He's a reasonable man. Underneath all the coldness you've managed to provoke – and yes, I _am_ going to blame you – he's still Booth. He's still easy-going, charming, _forgiving_ Booth."

She laughs disbelievingly. "Not this time, Ange. He's right, too – I ruined it."

Angela stands up, smoothing down her skirt. "I won't waste my time trying to convince you. I know what you're like. But please, just think about it. Because if you don't, it _will_ be too late."

Something in Angela's voice sparks a shiver of dread that has lain dormant for months. She doesn't want to ask, but she hears her own voice before she has time to stop. "Too late?"

Angela nods. "Yes. He didn't say much, but I know. He's got a date tonight. His fourth with the same woman. And there was something about him this afternoon…" She shrugs her shoulders. "Well, he's had six months of celibacy. Even a gentleman doesn't pine that long, honey."

She doesn't have the words together to respond before Angela leaves in a swish of material and long hair.

All she can feel is unbidden anger and hated jealousy, fusing to flood over her carefully-cultivated self-abhorrence.

_He's mine._

* * *

**Have you forgiven me?**

**I have a few thoughts as to my next chapter, but I'm entirely open to suggestions (provided that you don't mind me using them! I'll always give credit). I'm not promising marriage/babies/happily-ever-after, but I think I can manage something slightly more optimistic than Chapter 2's angst fest...**


	4. Chapter 4

Yes, believe your eyes. It really is a 'Rekindling' update. We're getting there, I promise...

**Disclaimer: If they were mine, one season would take three years.**

* * *

She knows better than to interrupt his date; that would get her nowhere. Besides, what could she say? She isn't even ready to admit to the irrational jealousy, so to voice anything more would be a lie to them both.

She doesn't sit outside his front door in her car, waiting for him to return; she knows without second guess that she doesn't want to know if he comes home alone. Maybe tomorrow, when everything has had time to sink in, she will be able to face the question. They jury remains out on whether she will ever be able to face the answer.

She knows she won't be able to stop thinking – about him, about them, about her own shortcomings – so she turns to her usual ally, work. Her professional focus has yet to abandon her for anything, even him; and if she feels the cracks appearing, she is quick enough to plaster them over to fool even herself.

She isn't alone, although she wishes she was: through the glass door of her office she can see Hodgins at his desk, bent over some new specimen. She knows he is writing a paper so suspects it is that holding his attention so firmly. For her, he is a temptation, a potential portal to a man who seems further away every time she contemplates him.

Her first instinct had been to stop Booth any way she could and she had her coat on before rationality intervened. She doesn't even deem it rationality in the sense that she normally uses it, as a counterargument to impulse; this time, it was self-preservation that stopped her. What would she say to him, if she even guessed where he was going? Now, as she saves her file and glances at the clock – nine thirty – she wonders if he has gone somewhere she knows, maybe somewhere they went together. The unfamiliar burn of resisted tears fills her head and she deliberately stares at the open journal she has been consulting. The words slowly slip into focus as the world she understands beckons her in, promising her respite from confusion.

The tap at her door startles her.

"You nearly done? I'm going to lock down the platform for the night if you are." Hodgins' voice is gentle, but it still seems out of place in her thoughts.

"Yes… Go ahead." She nods absentmindedly. "I won't need it, I'll just be in here a bit longer." She looks back down to her page, not wanting him to note her suddenly-uncontrollable expression.

From the corner of her eye she sees him start to back out, then hesitate. Without moving her gaze, she can visualise him biting his lip, the furrow in his brow deepening in a frown.

"He's at the new Italian opposite the Hoover Building. _Libretto_, I think it's called." His voice shakes with a friend's confidence betrayed. "Just in case," he adds softly, before he closes the door fully.

She still doesn't move. It doesn't matter where he is; it only matters that the person he is with is not her. This is something beyond her comprehension and she isn't sure of anything any more. Even her own thoughts persist in disobedience.

_He's not a saint_, she hears Angela's voice reminding her. Like she even needs to be told. She knows he isn't a saint: his quick temper, immovable obstinacy and his poorly-hidden streak of vanity quickly assemble to counter that claim. But then she too is lacking in saintliness – even if she were to validate their creation from potential myth, she adds mentally. Somewhere inside her brain, a scientist breathes a sigh of relief that instinct has yet to fully dampen her other personality traits.

She broke her phone last week, unable to scold herself any harder for unsent texts and cancelled speed dials. She doesn't like the new one. That will teach her not to take out her anger on inanimate objects. There's still a slight mark on the wall from the collision.

She studies the screen of the hated new phone. _Touch screens are better_, the man in the shop had assured her. _Far more versatility than your standard handset_. She hadn't cared and just nodded at the first model he suggested; his eyes had been backlit by an unexpectedly high level of commission. It took her a frustratingly long time just to change the settings to the ones she preferred and stop the irritating default ringtone. Her last phone had a dedicated ringtone set for her partner. This one doesn't. She isn't sure if she even has a partner any more.

_I need to see you_, she starts her message, her thumb still slipping slightly on the sensitive screen.

She deletes it.

_I want to talk to you. Can I call later?_

No. What if he isn't alone? Does she really want him to tell her not to call because he's with his new girlfriend?

She deletes it and returns her phone to the stand-by screen.

She can't solve this in time, she realises, no longer resisting the quiet flow of tears. She can't stop him sleeping with someone else because she can't even tell him why he shouldn't.

* * *

He waves goodnight to the duty security guard as he fishes his car key from his jacket pocket.

"Night, Dr Hodgins," is the cheery answering call from the young man working tonight.

Hodgins briefly wonders why a man like John is working security at nights; he knows from the photo on his locker that he has a young family and that the head of the security team offered his a place on the day shift rota. It puzzles him longer than he thinks it should. People intrigue him; motivations are so individual. He wonders if John has other commitments during the day – school, maybe? – and considers whether it would be worth offering help. He has learnt too often that financial help is often refused, no matter how genuine the offer.

He sits in the car without starting the engine, his thoughts making the unlikely leap from John to Booth. Booth used to have the cheerful undertones of the younger man. They haven't been present for six months.

His phone chirps, cutting into his thoughts. It's nothing but a brief message from his provider offering an additional service, but he stares at the text far longer than he needs to. After a few moments, he deletes it and starts a new message.

_Man, you're going to kill me for this, but I'm interfering. Think about what you're doing, hey?_

He isn't expecting a response and is surprised when the phone buzzes a few seconds later.

_Am I allowed to tell you to butt out?_

He smiles wryly. A predictable response.

_Yes, but it doesn't mean I'll listen. Look, she's hurting and she doesn't know what she wants. Maybe talk to her?_

They aren't close, in the traditional sense; they rarely touch on subjects this deep. But beer and bowling has forged more of a link than either expected and now a mutual respect gives him the privilege of calling his friend on his stubbornness.

_She knew what she wanted well enough six months ago. I can't hang around waiting for her any more – done that too long now and I'm too old to put myself through it for any longer. If she changes her mind, she knows where to find me._

It's a long message for the generally-terse Booth, one that reeks of pain and self-inflicted denial. Dangerous waters, Hodgins reminds himself, wondering whether to leave it there. His conscience is satisfied that he hasn't stayed silent; it's another motive that prompts him to respond, one he can't quite pin down. He hesitates to call it altruism, knowing too well how a happy ending could benefit his own life. He thinks that maybe this is a genuine desire to see his friend happy.

_You're honestly saying you think she'd come to you? Be realistic – she's had six months of your silence. Even if she was sure of the way you felt six months ago, do you really think she's sure enough now to drop her pride and say something? If she thinks you don't care now, she won't do a thing._

He feels like he's writing a novel. His texts are normally of the _on my way_ or _in a meeting, call you back_ variety. Recently, there have been a few between him and Angela of the _duck, Booth's here and he's headed for her office_ type. He doesn't think he's written a conversational text since he was with Angela.

He knows he won't get a reply to the message – it took him a lot to write it and it would take too much for Booth to respond. He knows too that his friend will not dismiss it; even if he tries, it will sit in the back of Booth's mind, niggling away until he considers it properly.

As he swings the car out onto the road, he wonders if his friends would go to these lengths for him.

* * *

She's nice, Emma Lynch. She's easy to talk to and she doesn't even try to manipulate him. There are no coy looks from beneath her eyelashes, there are no accidental touches. When they first met, she had been unashamed of her interest in him. Maybe that's why he had responded to her _I like you. Would you like to go to dinner with me?_ with an unexpected _Yes, I think I would_. He thinks that had he said no, she would have smiled without bitterness, shaken his hand and let him leave her office, not dwelling on the chance encounter or mired in rejection.

She embodies his old view of relationships. That carefree, try-your-chances approach to dating, where you don't keep your secret crush on your partner buried in your chest until it infiltrates every moment of your life.

Emma is easy to be with. She has never pressured him: at the end of their first date, she kissed him on the cheek outside the restaurant, told him that she had a good time and it was up to him if he wanted to do it again but she would definitely like to.

It is so unusual, not to wonder whether she likes him or not. He laughs sometimes when he realises that she reminds him of Bones: in their own ways, they are both straightforward, treating the world as though they have nothing to explain. She is Bones without the complications, without the family background and the locked-up pain that has created her inability to trust.

It isn't that he sees Bones when he looks at her. He likes her too much to use her as a substitute. She is making him laugh again after six months of barely cracking a smile and he doesn't want to stop laughing. He feels more like himself than he has done in a long time.

He knows that if Bones didn't exist, Emma could be the woman for him. Even after a handful of dates, he knows. Too many times over the past couple of weeks he has wished he didn't love his partner.

Emma is talking happily about her day when his phone vibrates in his pocket. He reads Hodgins' text without a flicker crossing over his face, sends his rapid response and looks up.

"Work?" She pulls a face.

He smiles. "Not this time."

"Phew. I thought they were going to drag you away before I had my way with you." She winks at him, completely devoid of lasciviousness. He knows she is just being funny. "Oooh, bathroom calling. Mouse bladder." She blows him a kiss as she leaves the table. He thinks again how much he likes her and her breezy way of going through life.

He grimaces at his vibrating phone. So Hodgins thinks he should talk to her. _Oh yes. Fantastic idea, man, and how do you think that will work out when we can barely be civil?_ He sends a lengthy response, revised several times, unable to stop a brief shiver of sadness shooting through him as he writes _I'm too old to put myself through it for any longer_. Hefeels too old for a lot now and suspects that the next few years will be difficult. He has always wanted a family and has never been ashamed of that. Maybe it's too late now; he won't go into anything even verging on serious as long as he knows another woman lingers in his thoughts. He's more grateful for Parker than he's ever been. He won't miss out on fatherhood completely.

"Hey, did you find out whether you have Parker on Friday night?" Emma asks, slipping back into her seat. "My sister's hassling me about meeting you. _Please_ give me an excuse to put her off." She twists her spaghetti round her fork with a happy grin.

"Anyone would think you didn't want them to meet me," he teases, feeling the familiar vibration in his pocket.

He doesn't read the message. He doesn't want rogue thoughts spoiling tonight.

"Hell no, I just don't want _you_ to meet _them_. Nicky and her husband are interrogative specialists. Even the FBI won't be able to stand up to them. In fact, you should probably recruit them."

He likes this, her easy conversation. They talk about everything, from movies to politics. He hopes they'll be able to be friends when this is over.

He knows that however far their relationship goes there will always be a ghost as a backdrop, stopping him giving his heart away completely.

"Not much call for the Spanish Inquisition these days," he tells her with a grin. "The bosses don't like it."

"Awww, such a shame. Nicky could do with a career change. The kids are getting wise to her."

He knows Emma's sister is a teacher. He knows a lot about Emma, he realises. It's not because she dominates the conversation; it's more that she just drops information into the exchange as casually as she orders lunch. He isn't used to this. He's used to prising information from cagey suspects and his even cagier partner.

Angela would like Emma, he decides.

He knows that Emma is thirty-three and that most of the time she enjoys her job as an analyst for the Department of Justice. She told him that when he barged into her office, misdirected in his search for her boss. She chatted away freely as she found the information he needed, helpfully adding in background details. He knows she has been single for over a year and feels no urgent desire to settle down. He knows she would like children eventually but won't regret waiting for the right person. She hasn't told him this with any ulterior motive; it was just conversation.

Before his obsession with his partner put him off dating, he always dated women he wanted. Women he could imagine sleeping with. It wasn't because he was just looking for sex, more that he didn't know how else to choose someone. For the first time, he thinks he's dating a friend.

"Booth?" Emma ducks her head to catch his downcast eyes. "You okay?"

She doesn't use his first name. On their first date, in the same way as she treated everything else, she asked him which he preferred. He told her he was so unused to his first name that he wasn't sure he'd respond.

He looks up into her concerned frown.

"You were miles away."

He smiles. "I was, wasn't I? Sorry."

For the first time since they met, he sees a shadow of solemnity flit across her face.

"Emma, are _you_ okay?" he asked, worried by her sudden change of mood.

She meets his gaze and he knows instinctively what she will say.

"Is it time for us to talk about your ex?"

He hasn't mentioned her, other than to say they split up six months ago and he hasn't felt much like seeing anybody else since. Until now, Emma has never questioned him. But he should have known. Emma is as perceptive and as sensitive to people's reactions as he is.

When he doesn't respond, she continues, looking like she's forcing herself to have this conversation.

"I like you. I think I've been pretty straight with you about that," she says, slowly.

He nods. He's grateful. These days he can't handle guessing games.

"And I think you like me," she carries on, taking the last mouthful of spaghetti.

He doesn't respond as she swallows and takes a sip from her wine glass.

"Actually, scrap that," she says, with a slight smile. "I know you like me. The question I suppose I'm asking is, how much? Because I can't be the only one who's realised this is our fourth date. And I doubt I'm the only one who's anticipating _something_ happening."

He's glad she hasn't specified the _something_. He prefers the vagueness.

"You're not," he admits, giving her the courtesy of not looking away.

He doesn't miss the relief in her expression.

"Good. But I still think we need to at least bring her up. Because I can tell you for sure that my last boyfriend had nowhere near the effect she clearly has."

He frowns, confused. "I haven't said anything about her."

She smiles wistfully. "That's almost the giveaway. I've told you all about my last relationship and yet I don't even know her name."

"Temperance," he murmurs, seeing no point in not replying. He steels himself for her reaction. "She's my partner."

Emma is silent for a while, sitting back in her chair as she processes. "Still your partner?"

He nods. "Yes, but… Well, we don't see much of each other these days."

"How did it end?"

He hesitates. "She ended it. I didn't want to." He reaches across the table for her hand. "Em, it _is_ over. I wouldn't do that to you."

Her lips twitch. "I don't for a minute believe it's still going on. I know you're not like that. But what you feel still matters." She bites her lip. "Did you love her?"

"Yes." His voice is low. There is no point in lying.

"Do you still love her?" Her voice is shaking now and he realises he has been a fool: however straightforward she is, she can hurt the same as everyone else.

He stares at her. Even though he expected the question, he has no ready answer. "I hope not," he says softly. He won't lie to someone he respects. Someone he likes.

She nods. She hasn't pulled her hand away, which he takes as a good sign.

"If she wanted you back, would you agree?" she asks, looking straight at him.

"Emma, she ended it," he points out, knowing all too well that he isn't answering the question. "It won't happen."

She raises her eyebrows at him. "Neither of us is stupid enough to think that answers the question."

It's another moment in which he wishes he didn't love another woman.

"I know." He pauses. "I don't know. I don't want to. She said… There have been things that would be difficult to forgive. I hope I'm strong enough not to cave."

"I think you would," she says quietly. "And maybe that's why we should stop this here." Her smile is sad now. "Don't see it as a weakness. None of us can completely control our emotions. The only way to even try is not to let anything get too deep to start with. And we all know _that's_ no fun."

* * *

He drops Emma at home, fully intending to abide by her parting instruction to call her in six months when she'd be able to be friends. The rest of the way home he spends trying to work out how he feels. _Sad_ just doesn't seem to encompass it. Yet it _is_ a sadness, one that is more than something not working. Interlaced with it is a despair; it's a despair at himself that he never seems to fall for the right person. If he had met Emma first, it could have been so different.

He drives through the familiar streets on autopilot. He's glad now that he didn't drink tonight – his car is familiar ground, something comforting to him now. His world has been so chaotic in the last year that he's grateful for anything that grounds him. In the car he can remember all those snapshot memories that meant nothing and yet are still his everything.

He parks the car and reluctantly drags his bag of files from the back seat. There's work to finish tonight if he wants a free weekend. He almost snorts. He doesn't know Parker's plans for the weekend yet – there was talk of a birthday party – but if he's on his own he isn't sure he _does_ want a free weekend.

He is trying to separate one key from the others – one-handedly – when he realises there is someone sitting on the steps outside his building. It takes him only second to recognise the outline.

She holds her hand up before he has a chance to open his mouth. In the dim light, her face is drawn and he knows she's been crying.

"You can tell me to leave and I'll go," she blurts out in a rush, her usual composure fleeing her. "But I can't tell you how relieved I am that you're alone. And there are things I'd like to say."

He stares at her, unable to muster suitable words. Eventually, he nods and gestures for her to follow him.

* * *

**One more to go and they'll finally be free of this hell I put them through. As usual, I (like all authors!) love the reviews, but I never mind an unexplained author or story alert so don't feel guilty!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Well, folks, we've finally reach the end. I wish I could have got it out quicker - I'm sorry I write at such a slow pace.**

**I don't know if I'm entirely happy with it, but I've got to publish it before I back out!**

**Just for information, I'm ignoring anything around episode 100 - actually, season 5 altogether. I haven't seen any of it, so I'm pretending it didn't happen...**

* * *

"What's her name?"

She can't quite believe she's asking; then she can't quite believe he's answering.

"Emma," he says flatly, not looking at her as he goes into the kitchen to viciously yank a beer from the fridge.

She realises he's automatically offered her one and shakes her head. This is one time when she would like the aid of alcohol and one time she knows it's vital he knows she's sober.

He slams the fridge door and rests his forehead against it.

"Why are you here?" he mumbles and she can hear the weariness in his voice.

Maybe he's as tired as she is.

She hesitates, then says, "Because I need to take one of my opportunities to talk to you before I don't have any left."

He moves past her and drops into the armchair, still avoiding looking at her. "I don't think I have the energy to deal with your cryptic speeches any more. Say what you mean and say it fast."

"You need to be patient with me."

She knows she should never have uttered the words as soon as her mouth closes. He doesn't need to do anything for her.

Now he finally lifts his head to stare at her incredulously. "Patient?" he hisses, menace shadowing his tone. "I was patient for three years. Then I was patient for four months. Then I was patient for two weeks. And for six months I've been patient – patiently waiting for you to realise that things can never be right with us again." He spits the words out venomously, making sure he meets her eyes throughout. "I'm done being patient. I took the step you wouldn't. My transfer request went in last month. We're on borrowed time, baby."

It's not an endearment, not the way he says it; it's not the verbal caress she remembers murmured in her ear. It's a sneer she deserves, one undercut with bitter triumph.

_He was waiting for me to do it_, she realises – and she doesn't know whether he was trying to salvage her dignity or his own.

She forces herself to remain impassive as she watches him check his phone, a wry smile crossing his features. It isn't a nice smile; it isn't the smile he used to turn on just for her, the smile that told her she was everything he wanted in that moment.

"Hodgins doesn't think you'd come to me. He says I'd need to be the one to talk." He stares at her, his eyes devoid of emotion. "Why are you really here, Temperance?"

She wants to answer him simply. She so desperately wants to tell him she loves him, that she's sure she always will; she wants to beg him to forgive her and know it will be worth it. But she knows she can't – she won't lie to him. To promise her certainty would be promising a future she still can't be completely sure she can make happen.

"I needed to talk to you away from work. I needed to see you and hope we can talk without getting angry." She keeps her voice steady, hoping that he will remain calm.

He doesn't look at her as he says, "And if I'm still angry from the last time we talked? What then?"

She hesitates. "Then I'll follow whatever you say." She lets her gaze drop away from him briefly, then forces her eyes to refocus on him again. Even if he won't look at her, he will know if she is avoiding looking at him. "If you think it's the right thing for us not to be partners any more, I won't fight you. I can even understand why you want that. It isn't like we've been… _happy_ over the past few months."

He looks thinner and she wonders if he has been eating properly. Everybody always thought he was the one forcing her to remember meals – and yes, maybe her intense professional focus occasionally makes her miss the clock ticking round – but she knows that his appetite fails when he is upset. After horrible cases, she had always been the one to ignore his repeated assertions that he wasn't hungry.

"We haven't been partners for six months," he reminds her, his voice hollow.

"I tried to carry on." Her response is automatic and once more she knows she shouldn't have spoken. Even as she realises, her mouth is moving, only to make it worse. "I wanted us to be normal again, like before."

He laughs incredulously. "Normal?" he echoes. "We were never normal and it's your failure to recognise that that's got us here in the first place. We were _never_ just partners and friends and if you really thought about it you'd know that!"

She wants to counter his words; she wants to wrap herself in the cloud of denial she lived in for their first two years. And then it had changed and she hadn't been able to deny the unacknowledged tension between them. Was it the kiss, that stolen, secretly-wanted kiss watched by a meddling lawyer that did it? Or was it slower?: a purloined earring, a long-hidden confidence shared, an embrace just a little too tight on too many occasions? She isn't sure any more. She only knows that there was a point when she knew that one day they would need to let their secret into their lives.

She remembers the beat of her heart and the rush of her blood when he broke the silence. She remembers the unknown thrill of a new possible future. She remembers the fusion of apprehension and anticipation in his eyes and the way his hand lingered on her arm as he told her they were taking it slow.

_We'll start with a dinner we both know is a date_, he had said, his voice full of tenderness but still undercut with the same uncomplicated humour she had always envied.

She had laughed – so nervously it was almost a giggle – and nodded before she had time to scare herself out of it. She knew then that, although she wanted to try for the 'something more' she had never confronted, it would be difficult. She had promised herself she would think through any instinct to run.

And she had. For four months she had battled insecurities she didn't know were buried within her. She had never doubted her own attractiveness but she started to wonder whether he would one day look elsewhere and see someone he wanted more. She had never doubted her intelligence but she started to feel like that would never equal his innate ability with people. She had never doubted her independence but she started to fear her growing reliance on his presence in her life.

She didn't realise that she had long been reliant on him.

She grew to despise the new her, the one who worried and debated with herself and didn't feel as if she could confide in either of the people closest to her. She had wanted to sit with Angela and blurt out her newly-identified deficiencies, but the prospect of speaking the words aloud made them seem like an even bigger problem. She had wanted Booth's reassurance that one day she would be able to have him and be herself again but she feared his reaction when he discovered she was questioning anything in their new relationship. She had wanted him to be happy.

She hadn't worked out – until it was too late – that every time she stopped herself going to him she was underestimating him as well as herself.

_You should have some fucking faith in me._

She remembers his words from the day six months ago in her office and wonders if she will ever be able to sooth the damage she has written into his mind.

"Okay," she says quietly, suddenly too tired to fight any more.

His head lifts and his eyes narrow. "Okay?" he repeats. He sighs and she is sure she hears sadness in the sound. "I don't think we have anything more to say. It's not worth it anymore."

She nods silently, her hands clasped together in front of her, her knuckles whitening as her grip tightens.

It is only seconds before she speaks, but the silence stretches uncomfortably between them.

"If I think it _is_ worth it, will you let me say what I came here to say?"

She isn't sure he will agree until he nods hesitantly. Six months ago she had known he would always listen to what she had to say.

Now she has his permission, she feels tongue-tied. Her mouth is suddenly woolly and she wonders why she bothered to plan what she needs to say. It won't ever be able to come out in the right order.

"You're not going to believe this, but I made notes," she admits shakily.

His only reaction is a slight raise of his eyebrows.

"And then I realised that I'd remember the important things without prompting – and I didn't want the others to get in the way."

He shifts slightly and she knows she's got limited time until his patience expires. His discomfort in her presence is nothing new: it started the moment she built the wall between them, so much thicker than his flimsy line had ever been.

"You won't believe me when I say it, but I need to say it first. I'm sorry, Booth." She isn't looking at him now; the intensity of his scrutiny would be too much whilst she feels so vulnerable. She doesn't remember the last time she apologised and meant it quite so fervently. "I'd say it a hundred times if I thought you'd believe it any more."

"You're wrong," he interrupts listlessly. "I do believe you. I'm just not sure what you're sorry _for_. Which incident is it, Temperance? Because there's been more than one and you damn well know it."

She bites her lip, willing herself to neither cry nor leave. "I'm sorry I didn't give it more of a chance. I'm sorry I left you the way I did after…" She can't say it; giving a name to the night that had been so bittersweet seems wrong.

"After you let me fuck you? After you gave me hope that maybe you'd changed your mind and recognised what we had? I never thought you'd treat me like that." His voice is quietly vicious, full of so much he isn't saying.

_You shouldn't have given me the choice_, she wants to say, but this time she holds it back. She knows she needs to stop trying to blame him.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs softly, unable to say anything else.

His head drops back against the chair. "Sorry for what?" he repeats. "Sorry for the decision you made or sorry that it had the impact it did? Because you should have known I couldn't go back to the way we were. I was doing okay before you landed on my doorstep that night. I wasn't happy – I thought you were wrong – but I could accept that we'd tried and it wasn't what you wanted. And then… Then I open the door to you in _that_ dress – that dress you bought for me – and you let me touch you. You let me undress you. You let me fuck you so hard you screamed. And don't try to tell me I should have stopped. You _know_ I'd have stopped if you'd asked me to."

She nods, because she does know. And she hadn't wanted him to stop. Her body had been on fire from his words and his caresses and she had wanted him to be like he was. He was always so gentle with her, so loving – and she _did_ love that about him. But that night he had been forceful, dominant and so, so skilled at making her body obey his every instruction.

"I didn't want you to stop," she admits, because she thinks she owes him this much.

"So what was it? You wanted to see me lose control over just how much I wanted you? You were just plain horny and I was easiest?"

His words hurt her more than she wants to acknowledge. Even then, she had never seen him as just the nearest body. She had gone to him only to try to repair some of the damage from their earlier argument, thinking it was over but still knowing how much she needed him in her life. Six months of revisiting it has taught her exactly when she knew she would end up in his bed.

_You're not scared of me. You might be mad at me. You might be upset by me. But mostly you're just turned on right now, aren't you?_

She had always known there was an inherent dominance buried inside him; she had called him an alpha male enough to reinforce it. But in four months he had never released his urge to take complete control of her sexually. From the moment his arms encircled her and his mouth swept over her throat, the first night she had worn the blue dress chosen so carefully for him, he had been more considerate than any of her previous lovers; confident, yes, exalting in the ways he learned to make her body burn up with desire, but always so careful not to run any risk of hurting her with his strength.

When he finally let go – when she had goaded him into abandoning his restraint – he hadn't hurt her. It had been unlike anything she had previously experienced – pleasure coursing through her so violently she could barely gather her thoughts, never mind voice them. She knows she will always treasure the times he loved her so gently, so perfectly, but it will be that last time that makes her remember quite how superior anything between them was to anything she could ever anticipate.

"I wanted to talk to you," she starts, knowing the words are weak. "I didn't intend for anything to happen." She twists her fingers together, hoping the discomfort will distract herself from her own foolishness.

He nods, saying nothing for a moment. "Emma asked me tonight if I would go back to you if you asked."

She curses her heart for racing. "What did you say?"

"That I didn't want to. That I hoped I'd be strong enough not to give in." He looks at her without malice in his face for the first time; but she doesn't revel in the emptiness that takes its place. "I told you I wouldn't be your fool and I meant it. I've spent enough years waiting for you. My life was on hold and it can't be any longer."

She knows what she must ask but dreads his reply. "Do you still love me?"

He doesn't respond for a long time and she wonders if this will be their end.

"I don't know," he tells her, frustration interlaced with weariness in his tone. "I told Emma I hoped not."

"She asked you?"

He grimaces and although she hates the way the expression twists his face, she recognises the old Booth in there somewhere. The one who had to give answers he would rather keep to himself. "Yes, she asked me. Does it make you happy? Do you get something from knowing even she thinks I'm not over you yet?"

The bitterness is back. She resists the impulse to move in front of him, run her fingers through his hair, sooth the lines on his forehead.

"Please don't think that," she whispers, hearing the distress in her own voice. "Of course I'm not happy about it."

A sound comes from the back of his throat that is half snort, half sigh. "You still haven't answered the question. Why are you here? What did you hope to achieve from coming here? Another conversation that just reminds us both how far things have gone wrong?"

"No!" she blurts out instantly, frustrated at her own inability to manage events the way she wanted to. "I want to tell you how I feel!"

He tenses, his hands gripping the arms of the chair. "It's a bit late, isn't it?" he says, tiredly.

"I still think it's important."

He stares at her, his face blank. "I don't think I want to hear. I'm not sure I can deal with all this getting any worse. I've had enough. I'm leaving, Temperance, isn't that enough for you? We don't _need_ to fix it now."

"This isn't about fixing it anymore," she forces out quickly, before he can continue. "I wish it was, but I'm not stupid – I know you're done. I just… I need to say these things. I don't want you to – no, I won't _let_ you leave me thinking I didn't love you."

"It doesn't matter now," he murmurs, his voice cracking with tiredness and absolute futility. "It makes no difference."

"It does," she insists, quietly. "Even if it makes no difference to you, it does to me. I did love you – more than I could ever have told you then – and even if you don't care now, I hope you can take the past and make some of it into good memories. We were good partners. Good friends. And however much you may regret it, for a while we were good lovers too. I don't want the last thing I did to you make you forget how much I loved you, however selfish that is."

He nods, his eyes downcast, his head hanging wearily. "I do have good memories," he tells her, subdued by her uncharacteristic emotion. "And I don't regret it. I only regret what this has become."

"That's my fault," she says, using all her effort to keep her voice steady. "And although it might not mean anything to you now, you changed me." She smoothes her skirt out, steeling herself to keep going; she knows she has more to say before she can leave knowing she has done all she can. "I didn't even realise what was happening, but I started trying to think like you. I wanted to be like you, to know people without even trying. When we were together, it drove me mad that I couldn't understand everything you did. I didn't get that I was the one making you happy." She bites her lip, her vision blurring as stray tears escape her control.

He is silent for a moment. "Do you get it now?" he asks.

She doesn't know why he is asking, but it doesn't matter now. She promised herself she would be honest – for both of them – and now she has started she finds words coming to her lips without censorship. "Yes," she responds immediately, her voice calmer than it has been since she entered his home. "And I won't leave without telling you I still love you. I don't know if you'll believe me – I'm not sure I would if I was you – but I won't go and spend my life regretting not telling you. I think you're worth far more than me swallowing my pride. You know that begging isn't me on my knees in front of you; you know that for me, this is begging. And I'm not ashamed to do it anymore."

The quiet is not uncomfortable, but she cannot tell what is going through his mind. He wore his heart on his sleeve until she damaged it too much for it to be displayed.

When he speaks, he isn't harsh. "I need to know what you want. I can't deal with half-truths and vague hints. This isn't about work. I don't think we can be partners for much longer, even I felt that was the right thing – we've gone too far for that. This is only about us now, no bodies, no crimes, no barriers. If you want me – if you want us to be together – you need to say so."

"I do." She doesn't need to hesitate before she answers him. "But I won't ask you for anything you can't give me. If I knew I would still feel this way in twenty years, I would have come to you months ago; but I don't know that and I won't promise you things I'm not sure of. You deserve so much more than the way I've treated you – and I want you to have it."

He falls back into his chair; she's sure she can see tears in his eyes. "I don't know if that's enough for me," he murmurs. He raises his head and looks at her; his eyes aren't vacant anymore, but she can't name what she sees in them. It isn't hope, however much she wants it to be.

She nods, rising slowly. "I'll go. Just… Will you think about it? I know I don't have the right to ask that, not really, but I'd like you to." She knows her nervousness is obvious. "I thought about you tonight – with her – and it made me feel like every possibility I had left was worse than the ones I'd thrown away. When I say that I don't want you to feel like that, it isn't because I think I'm worth so much; it's because I don't think we will every find someone quite so right for us as each other."

She is turning to leave when he says her name to spin her back.

"Don't leave," he says, softly.

She stares at him, not sure what he means.

He stands, moving towards her. "You said you thought I was worth more than your pride. Well, I won't let _my_ pride stop me getting what I want." He slips his fingers through hers, the first physical contact between them since he kissed her in his bed six months ago. Her skin tingles as her hand closes around his, unable to resist the temptation to slide her thumb over the back of his wrist. "I want us to talk about this – we _need_ to talk about all this – but right now I can barely think straight. Stay with me tonight – we'll talk in the morning – we'll go for breakfast and maybe the sun will shine even though it's January and maybe we'll both be thinking more clearly."

She hesitates before she nods, but she knows she wants this. "Okay," she whispers, unable to trust her voice.

She lets him lead her to his bedroom, suddenly shy; she knows that sex is far from his thoughts, but this is almost new for them. She doesn't think she felt this intimacy between them even when they were together.

He finds her a spare toothbrush and some clothes and she smiles as she realises how big they will be on her. His fingers push her hair behind her ear as he points her towards the bathroom with a slight grin.

As she changes, she knows nothing is resolved; they are not what they once were and they will never be that again. But six months has changed her – six more months will change her further – years and decades, further still. Her realisation that maybe she will change around him rather than her fear of moving away from him is more important than finally fighting her pride to tell him she loves him. Love has long been deniable; possibility is not.

He has drawn the covers back for her; as she slides into bed, he pads towards the bathroom to clean his teeth.

"Booth?" she mumbles, feeling her face heat as he turns to her.

"Mmm?"

She takes a deep breath. "I promise I'll still be here in ten minutes."

* * *

**It's been a slow ride - thank you for sticking with me through it. I'd love to know what you think, even if you're not sure about the way I've ended it - some of my most useful reviews are those that don't entirely agree with what I've done with the characters!**

**I'm aiming to finish 'Past Futures' (another couple of chapters to go) and then I think I might be done with Bones fanfiction for a while, barring random inspiration; I don't feel I can justifably write using the characters without knowing the major changes that came in during season 5 and I suspect that when I _do_ see the episodes they won't be giving me a lot of inspiration anyway.**

**Thank you to everyone who reads and/or reviews!**


End file.
